


Colors

by poetic_leopard



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, I APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE FOR ANY PAIN THIS MAY CAUSE YOU, One True Pairing, i DO NOT TAKE ANY IDEA CREDIT, inspired by a bluesey fanfic i read by nikkiRA, mostly warm tingly stydia feels, not sure how canon this is, this is just me torturing myself tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5795911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_leopard/pseuds/poetic_leopard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski loves Lydia Martin in every color of the rainbow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colors

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [in rainbows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381139) by [nikkiRA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkiRA/pseuds/nikkiRA). 



* * *

**Violet**

* * *

 The sky was spilling colors, gold and lilac and soft pink.

Her gaze followed the sun as it dipped into the kernel between the mountains.

"How much longer?" she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest rather petulantly.

"It'll take a few more minutes. The engine needs to cool off," he explained.

"That's what I get for mounting this jalopy of yours," she snapped, sighing dramatically.

"Hey! Not in front of the kid," Stiles muttered, defensively, rubbing the hood of his jeep in mock alarm.

"Don't worry. She didn't mean it, baby."

Lydia laughed and he pretended like it didn't reverberate through his own chest.

They were stuck on the curve of some isolated road in the middle of a desert. She was sat atop the hood of his jeep, with her hair tied back from her face.

"We could call Scott," she suggested.

"No-one's calling Scott," Stiles snapped. "He's got enough on his plate. Ten minutes, fifteen tops. Trust me," they were both quiet for a couple moments.

"Where do you have to be, anyway? Big date?" he asked, just because he wanted to fill the silence. He watched the side of her mouth tug into a half-smile as she pretended to intensely examine her nails. "Maybe. It's none of your concern, really,"

"Of course not," Stiles managed, his throat constricting.

He climbed up onto the hood besides her, her eyes were still trained on her nails.

"Why purple?" he asked. Lydia frowned. "It's a _violet_ coat," she corrected.

"And I don't know. It reminds me of flowers,"

"I see," He murmured.

"You know, Lydia -"

"Stiles," she cut him off. "Can we just not talk and watch the sunset?"

He nodded.

And they did just that.

Some of the clouds matched the color of her nails. He stole glances at her when she was too immersed in the view to notice. Their thumbs touched. He spent the rest of the evening thinking about how the warmth of her skin made his insides melt.

* * *

  **Indigo**

* * *

"I thought we were watching The Princess Bride,"  
  
"Star Wars has a princess in it too," Stiles said. "Come on. You've got to watch it. I'm not sure it's humanly _acceptable_ in this day and age to continue to exist so deprived, so devoid of quality entertainment. I'm doing a public service."  
  
"It'll be stupid," she pouted.  
  
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he muttered, as he slid the disk into the player.  
  
"You know, maybe this whole movie night plan was a bad idea - not to mention bad timing. I mean, all the birds in Beacon Hills did just go kamikaze and fly straight into our classroom windows yesterday,"  
  
"And Scott was fighting for his life this morning after toast. It's _never_ gonna be the right time," Stiles insisted.  
  
She finally relented and they curled up onto his couch. His father was out running an errand tonight so he would be home late, probably chasing after another dead-end lead.  
  
The movie began and an unnecessarily large bowl of popcorn sat in between them.  
  
He was watching her more than the movie, which he'd seen exactly 635 times.  
  
He'd seen her _more_ than 635 times, but she was a sight he'd never tire of gawking in awe at.  
  
He liked the way her glossed lips curled into a smirk every time she interpreted something a character said in a dirty way, he liked how she pointed out all the scientific inaccuracies, he liked how she got overly flustered over the bad CGI.

In the middle of the movie, she wanted to stretch her legs, and to his surprise, she twisted around and dropped her head on his lap. Her fiery curls spilled across his denim jeans in tufts.

He lost all concentration after that.

"Your perfume smells really nice," she told him, out of the blue. "Thanks,"

"It seems like the kind of perfume that would be named something misogynistically manly like SEDUCE or XCITE or something equally egoistic,"

"Indigo Ice, actually," he replied, chuckling.

"Indigo Ice," she repeated, contemplatively.

She fell asleep in his lap that evening, as the credits began to roll.

He ran his hands through her soft hair for a whole hour, simply watching her in her peaceful daze.

Sometimes he wondered what she dreamt about.  
  
If only he could hear her dreams.

* * *

  **Blue**

* * *

Everything was blue that day.  
  
The skating rink, the sky, the ice cream they'd shared.  
  
"Could it be any colder in here?"  
  
"Here," he handed her his jacket.  
  
"I'm wearing blue. Orange and blue, not a good combination,"  
  
"But it's the color of the Mets," he muttered, before realizing he sounded like a total idiot.

"Okay, um, maybe orange and blue is not the best. Right, you know, um, sometimes there's other things you wouldn't think would make a good combination end up turning out to be, like, a perfect combination, you know, like two people together - who nobody ever thought would be together," he fumbled. "Ever."

Lydia met his eyes, he felt like he was going to explode every time she looked at him. "No, I can see that."

When she would ice skate, it was like watching an angel dance.

There was this psychedelic glint in her eyes, an unrelenting flame to pursue this wild calling. She was so graceful, swan-diving into his soul, pirouette upon pirouette, that Black Swan ballerina twirl, the rosy promise of her cheeks, her winter-washed skin, the way the stadium lights illuminated her entire silhouette, so she was bathed in stars.

He couldn't ice skate at all. He had terrible balance and his legs went flailing everywhere. He fell on his butt at least a dozen times.

Lydia giggled, sashaying over to him and offering him a hand as he fell for the thirteenth time.

"Come on," she said. "Take my hand."

She yanked him up, kept her palm tightly pressed against his the whole time. He was holding on to her like a life boat.

They circled the ice rink, once, twice, thrice. It was so much easier to keep steady when he knew that even the slightest slip of foot would in turn result in them both spiraling into a fall.

The ice was a blur of blue beneath their feet.

She was an arctic animal. Built for the frost.

His skin tingled where she'd held his hand, this warm, soft, living thing in his palm.

It felt like holding a baby bird. Something alive and full of veins and blood and magic.

His hands were big, slightly calloused, and cold.

Hers were smaller, temperate, lovely.

Somehow, they still matched.

When they were done ice-skating, Lydia told him about how she wished she could just lose herself in the ice, in the wind, she told him how she wondered if there was some alternate universe out there where she was pursuing her dream instead of _'sniffing out dead bodies like some kind of cursed bloodhound.'_

"I don't think you're cursed, you know," he said.

"Really?" she scoffed, as they were walking back towards the car.

"Because curses are ugly, and well, there's nothing ugly about you,"

"Stiles Stilinski," she gasped, theatrically. "You've got to stop flattering me."

They bought ice creams, but Stiles, being the completely clumsy idiot that he was, dropped his only a minute after he'd bought it.

"You can share mine," Lydia mused.

They sat on the sidewalk and shared her cotton candy ice cream.

"Nice mustache," he told her, when her pink lips were iced blue.

Lydia laughed, "Yours is pretty impressive too," she said, and he fell for it, his gaze dropping to his chin in a hopelessly foolish attempt to spot it, and she shoved it against his mouth, giving him an even wider mustache. 

"Hey!" he groaned, stifling back a chuckle. "I'm pretty sure that went up my nose! That was absolutely uncalled for!"

It was like they were children again.

* * *

**Green**

* * *

It was his favorite color.

After all, her eyes were emerald forests.

It was her favorite coat and the skip in his heartbeat everytime he lost himself in thoughts of her, it was a dress she carried off like a nymph and the enchanted woods he read about as a child. She was his fairytale.

She was lying across his bed, with her hands folded over her stomach. She was talking to them about Aiden, how he didn't deserve all the shade Scott and Stiles were throwing at him and his brother. Stiles would not be jealous. He wasn't allowed to.

And yet he was, anyway, because he always broke promises he made to himself, because it hurt too much, to have her and yet never _have_ her.

Scott was biting his lower lip and staring at Stiles' wall of suspects, clenching and unclenching his jaw, Allison was watching him, worry brimming in her eyes. Isaac was watching her, his expression strangely echoing the one on Stiles' own face.

Lydia grabbed his arm and pulled him against the bed.

His face landed in a pillow now scented like cherry blossom shampoo.

She pulled him slightly closer and smiled at him with all her teeth. Her arm rested on top of his arm. He felt his stomach drop to his feet. He was on his knees even when he wasn't on his knees.

"Shh," she said. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"What?" he asked, staring into her eyes, swallowed by green.

"I'm going to end things with Aiden."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be with the bad boys."

There were days he wondered if she tortured him like this on purpose.

* * *

  **Yellow**

* * *

He'd been having one of the worst days of his life, which was really saying something, because he'd had a lot of shitty days in his life. This one probably took the cake because his father was in trouble. If anything - _anything_ , happened to his father, he was going to burn this whole cursed town into the ground.

The panic attack crept up on him. It always came like that, without notice, without warning, without a sign. Sometimes, it wasn't until he'd been wheezing for a couple of minutes that he realized what was even happening to him.

Lydia's face was a blur, but her expression was pained. Everything around him was flickering like bad television reception. Hands grabbed his wrists. He was being dragged out of the hallway. He wasn't sure if he was walking or floating, his chest was a cataclysm. It was like heart burn at first, but it got to a point where it was so bad that his stomach heaved and he felt like he was being knocked over by a thousand tidal waves all at once.

Lydia was speaking but he could barely comprehend a thing.

Everything felt like it was happening underwater, and the rest he only remembered like a dream he'd had several years ago.

It was when he felt her lips against his that color bled back into his world, his vision cleared and his breathing resumed.

Lydia was kissing him with everything she'd got. His lips slowly began to response to hers. It was like a bucket of ice water to the face, but in a wonderful way. Raw, dizzying, ever-lasting although only for a few heated moments. When she let go, he was still buzzed.

The whole world was Lydia.

And the kiss itself...

It was like...

It was like the sun came out.

* * *

**Orange**

* * *

Lydia was staring straight ahead, eyes puffy and red; still starry with tears.

It was a pleasant evening, beautiful, even. The sky was orange, like someone dropped a bucket of flames that spilled rampant across the clouds. The road was slightly damp from a recent drizzle, everything was tinged gold, including the jeep's dashboard and the tips of her hair.

The beauty of the day made Stiles mad.

Surely the world wasn't allowed to paint natural portraits on such an awful day. Surely the gods had _some_ sympathy.

Today was the day of Allison's funeral.

Stiles was driving them back home, Scott hadn't even shown up, he was hurting too much for that. Stiles wondered if Lydia was mad at him, mad at him for not attending her best friend's funeral. Stiles himself didn't know what to feel. His mouth still tasted like sawdust.

The events of the night they'd lost her played a hundred times over in his head...

He still couldn't help but feel like it was somehow his fault.

He took a deep breath and fished in his pocket for a mint, an Adderall pill, _something_ \- anything. All he found was a half-melted orange skittle. He wasn't quite sure what it was doing in his pocket, it might have even gone through the washing machine. He popped it in his mouth regardless.

"How do you like orange candy? _Nobody_ likes orange candy. It's gross," Lydia said, all of a sudden.

Stiles' shrugged. "I don't think it's so bad,"

"It's horrible," Lydia looked like she was going to cry again.

Stiles sensed that it wasn't the candy that she was talking about.

She didn't cry, though, unsurprisingly.

She was exceptionally strong and it made him insane how strong she was. She didn't break down easily. She held steel in her gut. Sometimes he thought she ought to have been born with lion skin. Maybe it wasn't healthy, maybe he thought she needed to break down. And yet he was incredibly proud of her. Proud of her for being able to carry herself through every whirlwind that derailed her.

Looking at her now in her black dress, he thought _angel_ once again.

This time, however, he pictured an avenging angel of death. Poignantly beautiful, like poetry.

"It's okay to allow yourself to be sad, you know," he told her, quietly.

"I'm not talking about it," she said, calmly but through gritted teeth.

"I'm not going to sit here and weep and tell you about how I wish I could go back in time and change things or about how much I miss her or about how there's this ginormous, Allison-shaped hole in my life now because all of that is futile. It's _futile_ , alright?"

"You're right," Stiles said. "We can just seethe in silence."

Lydia didn't say anything, so he turned up the radio, and Lydia turned it up loud, loud, louder.

Until it was earsplitting enough to drown out their misery.

When he pulled into her driveway, she didn't move.

She simply sat there.

He turned off the radio and she leaned into him, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his chest. She didn't cry. He didn't cry. They simply sat there like that for a long time, breathing into each other, letting all that unspoken pain bleed through the gaps in between them.

"Good night, Stiles." She said, when she finally let go.

His breath still tasted like that sour, orange skittle.

* * *

**Red**

* * *

Red burned the brightest.

Red left scorch marks on his very being.

Red was what he felt when he found her that day.

Red was the color of hell and the sight in front of his eyes might as well have been hell.

At first, he thought, he must be dreaming. At first he thought, _this isn't real, I'm not here, this isn't happening._

At first he thought, _wake up, wake up, wake up._

At first, he allowed comforting denial to blanket him.

He remembered Kira's terrified expression, he remembered Scott calling out to him, he remembered the stale stench of blood, so gut-wrenching, so metallic, that it was like he could taste it in his own mouth. He remembered how the blood soaked her peach sweater.

There was so, so much blood.

It was pooling on the floors, her sweater - her sweater was matted in it.

She was red. She was so red.

He remembered his lungs burning, as if he'd swallowed a bottle of rat poison.

But then he looked at her, and she smiled.

She fucking _smiled_.

It was a reassuring gesture.

It was for _him_.

There she was, a crimson portrait, her features, which had been twisted in inexplicable pain only seconds before, were now straining for a smile.

Scott grabbed his shoulder. He turned away. He didn't know where he was going.

Even when he wasn't looking at her, he could still see her.

She was _smiling_ , for _him_.

Smiling for him through hell.

He had a beautiful memory associated with red, too.

The string that had entangled their fingers together.

No, red would not symbolize blood. It would symbolize a bond, a bond deeper than blood.

It would symbolize the stuff of myth and legends.

Red was the color he thought of when he thought about her plump, kissable, _vaporizing_ lips, the way they'd curved into that unbreakable smile as he'd crouched down and looked her dead in the eye, promising that he would search all night just to prove that her word was worth something.

Red was what loving her felt like.

Red was _fate_.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to repeat that this one shot with the whole rainbow dynamic was NOT my idea, this was inspired by a fanfiction called 'in rainbows' by ao3 user nikkiRA for the raven cycle fandom for the ship bluesey.  
> You can follow my trash can self on [Tumblr](http://www.winterblues.tumblr.com/) if you'd like  
> I'm also on [fanfic.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5664249/xoeternalflamexo) and [wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/xoeternalflamexo)  
> p.s i humbly apologize if this ripped your soul out and now you're just dead inside, on the bright side, join the club!! we have cookies, blankets and free hugs, you're safe here!


End file.
